Angelic Assistance
by Silverfox1
Summary: Crowley finds that being a small snake in a big city is harder than he realised, but luckily angels are very helpful beings.


Angelic Assistance

Crowley materialised back in his London flat in a puff of sulphur and drew a deep breath of relief that another involuntary visit 'home' was finally over.

He almost gagged. The air tasted of sulphur.

Of course he should have known better by now. It might be several hundred years out of style, but making demons appear in a puff of sulphur remained standard procedure in Hell.

He really ought to keep it in mind the next time he got inconveniently discorporated and had to apply for a new corporation and transport back to Earth.

All in all things hadn't gone too badly this time around. His new corporation had been approved within months rather than years and he had actually arrived in his flat rather than the middle of the desert somewhere in the general vicinity of Timbuktu.

His flat might stink of sulphur now and that probably wasn't good for his plants ... and the poor things hadn't been watered in months come to think of it ... but that could be fixed by a good airing out. He just had to open up the windows and then he'd get the plant mister and ...

That was the moment Crowley realised that he had no hands and couldn't get up to window-height anyway.

Strange how he hadn't noticed there was something wrong with this shape right away. Could it be that he was having a nightmare?

But no, if you started to wonder whether you were dreaming in a dream you woke up, didn't you?

No, the reason that he hadn't noticed that this was the wrong shape was that it felt so very familiar. Ah yes, he was a snake.

Crowley had been a snake for over two centuries before he'd convinced Hell that he could do a much better job tempting people if he looked like them. People tended to trust people and to run away screaming or faint when a snake spoke to them.

Crowley considered popping back into Hell to file a complaint and demand a corporation with a human base-form, but no, that might take years or even decades. He was a demon with the power to change shapes anyway so all he had to do was change into human shape.

Or not. Nothing happened when he tried.

This led to a moment of blind panic since Crowley had always been afraid of forgetting how to change back into his favourite shape and now ...

Luckily Crowley was a very small snake at the moment so thrashing about in blind panic only stirred up a cloud of dust and didn't damage anything.

Sulphurous dust. That horrid taste on his tongue again brought Crowley back to his senses. Thrashing wasn't going to help. He had to go back to Hell and get a new corporation after all.

He concentrated and ... he couldn't descend into Hell either! Either his memory or his corporation was seriously defective!

Well, if he couldn't go to Hell, Hell would have to come to him. Or at least a representative would. Crowley spent almost a minute trying to remember where he kept the chalk and black candles before he realised that he had no hands with which to draw a pentagram or light candles anyway.

He tried calling for Asmodeus a few times. Asmodeus tended to get bored enough to answer a call without a proper summons and he might find Crowley's plight entertaining enough to forget to punish him for his insolence.

Unfortunately it didn't seem to be one of Asmodeus' bored days.

After several minutes of shouting at the top of his ... admittedly rather small ... lungs, Crowley gave up on Asmodeus and tried for Dagon and then, much more reluctantly, Belial.

He was almost glad when Belial, too, failed to appear and he found he'd yelled himself too hoarse to continue. You just never knew with Belial. Sometimes he could be almost friendly and then at other times ... Crowley shuddered and decided that since he couldn't expect to be able to shout again for a while now he ought to look for a more quiet solution.

He went over the process of changing shape in his head, made a mental check-list of the steps and tried again, more slowly and step by step.

Still nothing. If only he had somebody to compare notes with and tell him what, if anything, he had forgotten to do. Too bad that getting a demon here to do that required shouting and he couldn't shout anymore ... and it hadn't worked when he'd tried it just a little earlier anyway.

If only Aziraphale were here. Aziraphale could change shape, too, if he put his mind to it. Aziraphale also had hands and could draw patterns and light candles, though he was probably a lot better at summoning angels than demons and while angels had a re-corporation office, too, they didn't tend to be the most helpful fellows if you were a demon ...

Except for Aziraphale himself, of course. Aziraphale had helped Crowley with all sorts of problems in the past. He might not be the most practised angel at changing shapes, but all angels did know how to do it. Or perhaps Crowley could talk him into drawing the pentagram and lighting the candles and then hiding behind the door while Crowley made the call. That should be safe enough.

There was no chance that Aziraphale would drop by anytime soon, though. He knew that Crowley had been discorporated and how long Hell usually took to replace a corporation. He'd hardly expect Crowley back this soon.

Crowley sighed and started crawling to the door. It was quite a journey to Soho if you were a little snake unable to start a car. Public transport was out of the question, of course. People tended to scream at the sight of a snake curled up under their seat and not all of them were afraid to touch one.

He hadn't looked in a mirror yet, but Crowley was almost completely sure that he wasn't venomous. He never had been before. When you were a small, non-venomous snake people that knew enough not to be afraid of you could do all sorts of terrible things to you and you were quite helpless.

Of course, if on the other hand you were venomous, they tended to call the police, fire brigade, bomb squad and zoological gardens all at once. The last owned quite effective snake catching equipment and what with Crowley's powers apparently not working, getting on a bus or into the tube would probably land him in a well secured terrarium rather than a bookshop in Soho.

No, he'd have to make the trip on his own ... belly ... avoiding people as best he could on the way.

It would not be easy.

In fact the first obstacle appeared sooner than Crowley had expected. The door was closed and he not small enough to squeeze through under it. He couldn't get out that way.

The ventilator grid in the bathroom was wide enough, however, and the bathroom door happened to be open a crack, but unfortunately it turned out that the vent was just out of reach from the top of the water pipe. Crowley couldn't slither up vertical walls.

The water pipe inspired a new idea, however: He could get out through the drain pipe of a sink!

Or he would have been able to get out that way if it hadn't been covered.

Well, perhaps the kitchen sink ... Crowley slithered into the kitchen and up a chair leg, almost fell as he made the crossing from the chair to the kitchen worktop and finally plunged into the sink only to find it neatly stoppered.

Now what? Where else might he find a pipe that ... Oh no!

But then he hardly ever used the toilet and it couldn't possibly be any less hygienic than Hell.

Crowley crawled back into the bathroom and up onto the toilet seat blessing all the way. There he stopped for a moment staring down into the bright white porcelain bowl, working up his nerve. He drew his nictitating membranes tightly over his eyes, took a deep breath and plunged down into the sewers.

At first glance the sewers might not have been such a bad place to go in his current situation. Sure they stank, but he didn't have to flick his tongue out if he didn't want to, there were dry paths down here and they connected every place in London with every other place. Just like Crowley, Aziraphale, too, owned a bathroom with a toilet and where there was a toilet a snake could exit the sewers without meeting any people on the way. Rats did it all the time.

Crowley's current shape was much thinner than any rat he'd ever seen.

There were only two problems with going to Aziraphale's place via the sewers.

The first was that the rats got rather territorial and if you were a small non-venomous snake ... Well, rats were pretty tough opponents no matter who you were, actually. Crowley didn't like the idea of provoking them all that much.

He could try to move cautiously and evade the rats and with any luck they'd be less sure about his venomousity than he himself was. The worst thing they could do to him was discorporate him, which would send him straight to Hell where he could request a new corporation.

That wouldn't be such a bad solution to his problem, but Crowley preferred to avoid painful discorporations and now that he had thought of asking Aziraphale for help with his defective corporation, he was rather fond of the plan. It certainly would be more pleasant than another stint in Hell.

It was the second problem that became the deciding factor, however: After just a few minutes of slithering through the sewers Crowley had to realise that he neither knew which direction he was going in nor how to identify the pipe that led into Aziraphale's bathroom.

Nor, for that matter, was he quite sure which pipe he had arrived through.

He decided to leave the sewers to the natives and slipped out by the first opening into the streets that he could find.

It was pure luck that he wasn't crushed by someone's foot or a car the moment he appeared aboveground, but then that would most likely have been a comparatively painless discorporation. Crowley ordered his heart to calm down and sought the cover of a curbstone. Now that he could see the sky he'd be able to navigate by the sun, moon and stars even if he couldn't see the street-signs. As long as he stayed out of sight he'd get to Soho eventually. 

Several days later:

Aziraphale was in the backroom re-reading a rare misprint ... no, not of the bible. This one happened to be a Complete Works of William Shake-Spear ... when he heard the shop's bell ring.

"We're closed!" he called to the would-be customer.

"It says open on the door," a young woman's voice protested.

"Well, about to close," Aziraphale amended. "I was just going to put up the closed sign. Please do come back tomorrow," he added for form's sake, hoping she would do no such thing.

There was a satisfactory grumbling and the sound of a step ... then a jump and a scream.

"There's a snake at the door!" the woman screamed.

A snake? Here in his bookshop in the middle of Soho? Aziraphale went to investigate, thinking vaguely that it might not be such a bad idea to have a snake if the reptile only were anywhere but between the customers and the door. Then it would drive people out of the shop. Right now it was keeping that woman in, however, and that needed to be remedied as soon as possible.

He found the woman pressed against a bookshelf next to the backroom door and a small, filthy, much too thin grass snake lying unmoving just inside the shop door. He looked quite dead at first glance, but at the angel's approach he flicked out his tongue, sighed and said: "Aziraphale?"

"Crowley?" Aziraphale exclaimed. "What in the world are you doing here scaring my customers? Don't worry, dear, he is only a grass snake. Quite harmless. See, I'll ..."

"Well, I might need some help," Crowley admitted, quite embarrassed.

The woman, who'd mustered up the courage to follow Aziraphale a few steps closer to the door as he had walked in so confidently, gasped and dropped to the floor with a muffled bump. It was, Aziraphale thought, quite lucky that he'd put a carpet there to hide the burn marks from the fire that had almost destroyed the shop when there had been no apocalypse.

The angel scooped up Crowley and held him to his chest. The snake body didn't feel cold, which would have explained Crowley's sluggishness, but it wasn't exactly warm either. It wasn't really ideal weather for snakes out there today, the angel thought.

"Why don't you turn human and I'll make us a nice cup of tea," the angel suggested, placing Crowley on the chair behind the counter - the only comfortable seat in this room. "And then ... well, I suppose I'll have to do something about the human on the floor first, but then we can discuss your problem."

"But I can't," Crowley said weakly. "I can't change shape ... or anything. That is my problem."

"Can't change shape or ... or what?" Aziraphale asked peering at Crowley with concern.

"Or anything ... well, miracle," Crowley explained. "For all intents and purposes I seem to be an ordinary snake. And I'm not feeling too great ... so if you could maybe ... miracle me back to normal?"

Aziraphale attempted to miracle the snake into Crowley's human form. Nothing happened.

He attempted to miracle the snake healthy and clean ... There was a bit of a shimmer in the air, but it faded after a moment and Crowley looked as sick as before.

"Why, how ever did that happen?" Aziraphale inquired. "You just turned into a snake and couldn't turn back? Did somebody curse or miracle you into it? Or ..."

"No, no," Crowley's head wobbled a little which was probably supposed to be a shake. "This is my new corporation. They misread the instructions again, I suppose, and by the time I noticed it was defective I was back in my flat and the door closed and ... do you have any idea how difficult it is to find your way in London when you're too small to read street signs? Or too slow to cross roads during one green period?"

"No," Aziraphale admitted. "But you do look like ... well, where you come from. There seems to be something about this body that blocks miracling. But don't worry. We'll work out something. For now you'd better eat something. You look half-starved."

To the angel's relief he had no problem miracling up a small dead mouse.

"It's freshly dead," he assured Crowley. "No different than if you'd killed it yourself. Perfectly natural snake-food."

He half expected Crowley to make some protest, but the little snake opened his mouth quite willingly. Aziraphale pushed the mouse in head-first and watched, quite pleased with himself, as Crowley unhinged his jaws and drew it further in.

There was something like a groan from somewhere on the floor, but Aziraphale had no time to deal with the human now. He was much too busy wondering what they could do next.

"I'll make you a nice warm bath," he decided. "In a bowl of course, not that huge bathtub. That would be much too dangerous. And then we'll make you a cosy bed by the fire. You'll feel much better once you are full, clean and rested."

He certainly hoped so at least.

There was movement on the floor now.

"Oh no! Oh no!" the woman muttered rising and stumbling backwards in the direction of the door which quite pleased Aziraphale. "I'm a parselmouth! I heard that snake talk!"

"That's quite alright," Aziraphale assured her absent-mindedly "So is Harry Potter and he isn't a dark wizard either. Isn't that right, Crowley?"

"Sssure," Crowley said past his mouse. "Who'ss Haffey Poffer?"

"Well really, Crowley!" Aziraphale said. "The Harry Potter series? By J. K. Rowling? Surely you've at least heard of it!"

"I don't know," Crowley seemed to be thinking very hard ... or maybe he was just swallowing. "What channel is it on?"

"None," Aziraphale explained. "It's a book series, not a television one."

"Ah well, that explains it then," Crowley declared. "You know I'm not much of a reader."

Meanwhile the human had rushed screaming into the street. Aziraphale remembered too late that perhaps he ought to have told her that of course parselmouths weren't real and that she had fainted and probably hallucinated or dreamed the talking snake.

But it was too late now and she was gone anyway, so she was no longer his problem. Crowley on the other hand very much was.

Aziraphale picked him up and carried him into the kitchen for the promised bath and to make himself tea.

Should he offer Crowley tea as well? Was it safe for a grass snake to drink tea?

The bath and warmth did much to restore Crowley's sense of well-being, but unfortunately had no more effect on his demonic powers than Aziraphale's miracling had had. No matter how hard Aziraphale wished, expected or imagined, Crowley remained an entirely ordinary snake.

A thorough inspection of his body revealed some markings that Aziraphale thought might not actually belong on a grass snake and therefore might be demonic symbols, but altering them with the help of a pen that was quite surprised to suddenly be filled with body-paint rather than ink had no effect on Crowley's condition either.

Aziraphale sighed and gave up after trying it for the third time. Clearly there was no getting around it. He'd have to take extreme measures much as he hated to do it. Much as he ought not to do it! This was an emergency and it was for Crowley. He wasn't just giving in to unbecoming curiosity.

He went to the darkest, dustiest corner in his shop and for the first time since he had purchased them ... pulled out and opened his demonology books.

He shuddered just to touch them, but he was an angel and almost entirely sure that they could not harm him.

Unfortunately he soon had to realise that demonology was a wide and complicated field and his collection was far from covering all of it.

Quite a bit of it dealt with how to differentiate between different kinds of demons and their habits. Crowley matched none of the descriptions in Aziraphale's books, neither in his current form, nor the one Aziraphale was more accustomed to.

"Did you ever have horns?" he inquired just in case. "Or hooves?"

"No," Crowley replied. "What do those have to do with it?"

"A pig's snout?"

"No, but why don't you just miracle one up if we need it?"

"We don't. There just are no snake-shaped demons in this book," Aziraphale admitted.

"So try another one," Crowley suggested quite unconcernedly.

Aziraphale did. This one dealt with summoning demons which might have been helpful if Aziraphale hadn't been an angel and demons other than Crowley usually quite obsessed with discorporating every angel they met. No, summoning a demon to his shop and asking him to fix Crowley was quite out of the question.

He put that book aside ... and the next one on top of it and then the next one on top of that. Soon he had quite a stack of demon-summoning books.

Finally he found a book on demonic sigils.

"This is better," he announced. "Let me see that mark on your belly again."

Crowley wriggled a little and then yawned.

"Isn't it time for bed?" he asked.

"Virtue is ever vigilant," Aziraphale reminded him.

"Well, this bit of evil is awfully tired," Crowley stated. "And wants to sleep now. You can see my belly tomorrow."

Aziraphale sighed, put a bookmark in the book even though he hadn't really started reading it yet and pulled a handkerchief over Crowley since he didn't have any grass snake sized blankets.

Virtue might be ever vigilant and therefore not sleep, but it did say evening prayers whenever it didn't forget because it was too engrossed in a book.

A glance at the clock told Aziraphale that it was two hours past his usual time of prayer, but better late than never.

"My Lord, I thank you for ... and bless the humans and ..." After the thanks and blessings he usually added some personal well-wishes for the individuals he'd met that day before ending his prayer. "Please help that poor confused woman find reassurance that parseltongue doesn't exist and that she hasn't actually heard a snake talk, and please, if at all possible, could you maybe heal Crowley?"

On second thought perhaps it would have been wiser not to include the demon in his prayer. It was too late to take it back now, though, and as far as he knew none of his evening prayers had ever been answered. Most likely He didn't actually listen to insignificant angels' standard prayers at all and it didn't matter what Aziraphale said. The evening prayer was a mere formality, after all.

Aziraphale went into the kitchen for another cup of tea before he picked out a book for the night. 

They were at breakfast the next morning when the doorbell rang again. Aziraphale frowned, a bite of scone preventing him from calling out that the shop was closed right away.

Had he forgotten to put up the closed sign yesterday? He didn't think he had, but what with his worry about Crowley it wasn't impossible.

He had, however, been expecting the sign to be up so it really ought to have been ... or could it be that Crowley's condition was contagious?

That was a rather alarming thought. Granted, he didn't use his miracling ability nearly as much as Crowley, but if neither of them could miracle anymore, how were they going to get the demon human-shaped again?

He glanced over at Crowley who was rolled up quite elegantly on the table, the tail-tip of his mouse still sticking out of his mouth and looking quite unconcerned.

Aziraphale swallowed his bite hastily. The less time he allowed the customer to wander around in his shop and look at the books the less risk there was that they'd insist on buying one.

"We're closed!" he called finally.

"Ah, there you are!" a very pleased voice returned and fast steps brought the visitor to the backroom. "You are ... er ..."

"Having breakfast," Aziraphale declared hastily while trying to shove the demonology book out of sight behind the closest stack of bibles and Crowley darted behind the teapot with an alarmed hiss. "It is a human custom. They need to eat, as you probably know, and the ones in this part of the world are in the habit of eating their largest meal of the day in the morning. And since I am supposed to appear human to them ... well, you understand, I'm sure."

"Quite," said Raphael in a tone that implied that he did no such thing, but had much more urgent business on his mind. He glanced around the backroom with obvious interest, however, went straight to the stack of bibles and picked up the demonology book.

"I also find it quite helpful in learning to understand them better," Aziraphale prattled on, trying to think of a way to reclaim the book before Raphael read the title or noticed Crowley cowering behind the pot. "You know, living like one of them, experiencing the joys and difficulties they do. It makes one so much better prepared to assist them and forgive their failings."

"I'm sure," said Raphael holding up the hand that wasn't holding the book to stop the barrage of words. "But the humans and how you relate to them are hardly my concern. Perhaps you had better save your observations on the benefits of ... breakfast, was it? ... for a monograph for Gabriel."

Aziraphale had to struggle to suppress a shudder at the mention of his heavenly supervisor.

"Oh, of course," he assured Raphael. "I just ... well, you seemed to express some curiosity as to ..."

"It is entirely your own business how you approach your own duties as far as I am concerned," Raphael told him. "As long as you do get the job done, of course."

And even that was really Gabriel's business and not Raphael's, Aziraphale thought a little annoyedly.

"But then what are you d ... I mean what prompted this pleasurable visit if you are not interested in my work?"

"You prayed for healing of a demon, I believe?" Raphael inquired.

Aziraphale paled.

"Yes, well ... yes, you see ... he is still one of His creatures and are we not to love all His creatures and assist them if they are in need?"

"Now that is debatable," Raphael declared. "Whether or not demons are His creatures, I mean. Your dedication to what you perceive as your duty is of course quite commendable, but aiding demons is ... well, I do feel you might easily take it too far. They are very dangerous creatures."

"They are fallen angels," Aziraphale pointed out. "And angels are most certainly His creatures. Besides Crowley is hardly in any condition to pose a danger to me. If Heaven wishes me to stop my efforts on his behalf of course ..." Oh dear, what would Crowley do if Aziraphale had to stop helping him?

"Oh dear, no!" Raphael said quite hastily. "That isn't my mission. Not my mission at all. It was merely a personal observation. I would hate to see a fellow angel painfully discorporated for trying to help an undeserving being. So I wished to warn you to be careful in future. That is all. In the current case you seem to have indeed interpreted the situation quite correctly. Or at least I believe Heaven would hardly have sent me here in answer to your prayer if He weren't pleased by your kindness to the demon."

True, if they had wanted to fell Aziraphale for it they would have sent Uriel, and if they'd intended to slay Crowley, Michael. Raphael was the healer, after all.

"Oh thank you," Aziraphale said, quite relieved. "I had not yet exhausted all my resources, but ... well, I was very uncomfortable having to resort to ..." he nodded towards the book in Raphael's hand. "That. But I know so little about demonic powers ..."

Raphael glanced at the book. "This is written by a human, I suppose?"

Aziraphale nodded guiltily.

"Hardly the most trustworthy source, then," Raphael commented. "As I understand it demons' powers are much like our own, though I admit I am no expert either. Your demon can provide no further input?"

Aziraphale shook his head.

"Crowley is, much like myself, an expert in humans, not miracling," he admitted. "Though he uses it more than I do. Practising sloth, you see. Demons are supposed to."

Raphael made a pensive noise.

"Perhaps we had best start at the beginning," he decided. "Where is the demon and what exactly is ailing him?"

Aziraphale reached behind the teapot and picked up Crowley, who curled around his wrist rather apprehensively. Archangels were very far out of his league. Even Aziraphale as a principality technically outranked him.

"It's a new corporation," Aziraphale explained. "The shape is wrong and something about it seems to prevent all miracling."

Raphael reached for Crowley, but the little snake clung desperately to Aziraphale's wrist.

"Just let me have a look at you," Raphael said, sounding slightly puzzled. "I won't hurt you."

"Don't be silly, Crowley," Aziraphale chided. "He's here to help."

"That's a blessed Archangel, angel. Do you know what Archangels do to demons like me?"

"Heaven sent him to heal you," Aziraphale told him. "You do want to be healed, don't you?"

"I don't know. Maybe being a snake isn't so bad, you know. I could live out a natural snake life and nobody could blame me for not getting my tempting or damning quotas fulfilled. I'd have to make up for it by practising sloth ... and vanity ... and ... gluttony. It'd mean fewer wiles for you to thwart as well. All you'd have to do is let me sleep by your fire and miracle me the occasional mouse."

Aziraphale hesitated. He'd rather have Crowley back the way he had been.

"No dinners at the Ritz," he pointed out. "No feeding the ducks, no rides in the Bentley. No ... messing up traffic lights or phone lines."

He could feel Crowley squirm a little against his wrist.

"Grass snakes don't live all that long, you know," the demon said. "It'll be just a few years and we can have extra dinners afterwards to make up for it."

"He really isn't the most dangerous demon you have ever had to deal with, is he?" Raphael remarked quite amused.

"No," Aziraphale admitted. "But he is the one I have to deal with the most. And I'd like it to stay that way rather than have to get used to a less manageable replacement. So, Crowley, if you would please let go ..."

Crowley did.

Raphael held him up for inspection, turned him around a few times and then went still with a look of concentration on his face that led Aziraphale to assume that he was miracling.

"Interesting," the Archangel commented finally. "What were you hoping to find in the book?" 

Aziraphale's bookshop remained closed that day. Very well closed, since in order to make room to work for himself and the demonology books in the backroom Raphael miracled all the other books he found there out into the only large enough empty area in the shop. Some of those old bible misprints were quite large and heavy indeed and in combination they could block a door very effectively.

The teapot and other dishes found themselves miraculously clean and inside a cupboard - the inside of which the teapot had very rarely seen before - within the blink of an eye.

Crowley was placed in the middle of the now empty table so both Aziraphale and Raphael could get a good look at him whenever they needed to. The angels sat at either end of the table, each armed with a demonology book, pen and paper.

Aziraphale actually managed to go without anything to eat or drink all the way until tea-time, which probably was a new personal record.

Then, however, he got up.

"I'll make tea," he declared. "Do you want some?"

"Sure," Crowley said.

"I ... suppose I could give it a try," said Raphael and was accordingly introduced to the art of drinking.

The teapot and cups returned to the table and Crowley had to slither over to Aziraphale's side to make room for them.

"Do you have any books by Alistair Crowley here?" Raphael asked when Aziraphale returned from refilling the teapot for the third time.

"Oh, you can forget him," Crowley assured him. "He was a fake. I swear he has nothing to do with me despite the name."

"Then I suppose we can forget this book as well," Raphael concluded with a sigh and crossed out all his most recent notes. "It quotes him all the time. Are there any chocolate biscuits left?"

"I'm afraid not," Aziraphale admitted, glancing at the empty plate next to Crowley. "I'll make sandwiches."

By the time Aziraphale miracled on the light that evening the table was more cluttered than it ever had been before and not a single item on it was a book, the angels long since having switched to placing those in their laps for lack of room between the plates and cups. Crowley was dozing on Raphael's shoulder since he hadn't been comfortable lying on crumbs and Aziraphale was moving about too much, always running off to make or fetch food or order books.

"Do you think we might need a copy of the Necronomicon?" Aziraphale asked Raphael.

"It can't hurt," the Archangel replied. "Does Marmite go well with shortbread? ... Oh wait, I think I've found it."

"Found what?" Aziraphale asked. "The Marmite?"

"No," Raphael said. "The solution."

He picked Crowley off his shoulder, held him in front of him and concentrated.

After a moment there was a popping sound and there was Crowley sitting on an empty plate, quite human.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale darted across the room and hugged him. "You're back!"

"Technically he was here the whole time," Raphael pointed out. "Now maybe ... would you mind showing me how to make tea?"

Crowley pushed the angel back a little, hopped off the table and snapped his fingers at the teapot ... Granted, the snapping was entirely unnecessary, but he felt like doing this with style. The teapot started steaming again quite obediently.

"Tea," Crowley reported happily and snapped his fingers again. "And angel cake. My miracling is working perfectly fine again."

"Excellent," Raphael declared. Then his face fell. "Is it safe to eat food miracled up by a demon?"

"It has never done me any harm," Aziraphale assured him. "Though I do not approve of taking such short-cuts. Humans cannot just miracle up food."

He ate several slices of the cake anyway.

"You know," Raphael said several hours later as he was shaking out his wings preparing to leave. "I have to admit I was quite wrong. You should definitely continue your charitable work on behalf of demons. And if you ever need a healer again do not hesitate a moment to pray for me. I will be glad to help."

"You're quite sure you can't stay another day?" Crowley asked regretfully. "We really ought to treat you to dinner at the Ritz."

Unfortunately, though, not a single one of them could have eaten another bite that day.


End file.
